


5 times Deanna Winchester Thought She Would Become a Mother… And The One Time She Did

by moreculturelesspop



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abortion, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Always Female Dean Winchester, Angst, Childbirth, F/M, Female Dean Winchester, Genderbending, Male Castiel/Female Dean Winchester, Miscarriage, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24371071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moreculturelesspop/pseuds/moreculturelesspop
Summary: 5 times Deanna Winchester Thought She Would Become a Mother… And The One Time She Did
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 155





	5 times Deanna Winchester Thought She Would Become a Mother… And The One Time She Did

**Author's Note:**

> There is pretty graphic in relation to abortion and miscarriage, also pretty angsty.

**I**

The first time she takes a pregnancy test she’s 17 years old. She’s late and she really hopes it’s because of the stress of the latest hunt and not because of the blue-eyed boy with the Chevy.

She buys two tests for good luck and refuses to make eye contact with the checkout attendant at the gas station. She pees on the sticks in the restroom and paces the bathroom, her dad and brother waiting outside in the Impala. She breathes a sigh of relief when they both come back negative.

She doesn’t think about it again.

**II**

The second time she takes a pregnancy test she’s 19 years old. Their dad is away, who knows when he’ll come back. She’s feigned a rib injury, and he knows she’s lying but still leaves her at home with Sammy. She takes the test alone in the motel bathroom, she knows it’s going to be positive before the little plus sign appears. She’s tired, her breasts hurt and she’s peeing way too much. Her body is her weapon, she’s aware of every movement, every ache, every click.

She takes Sammy to the library as a treat where he devours the true crime section whilst she picks up some local leaflets, including one for Planned Parenthood. She also steals a book on female biology and hides it down her sweatshirt. She can detach herself from the bloody details of abortions and miscarriages, and birth defects. It’s just research about a monster possessing someone’s body. The fact she throws up after reading about D&C’s is neither here nor there.

She had $800 stashed with her bra and panties from various hustles she had perfectly executed over the past few months. She was hoping to spend it on a new leather jacket or boots, but instead, she hotwires a truck and drives it to the Planned Parenthood centre. She runs past the screaming pro-lifers who tell her that she is a murderer, if only they knew the damage she could do with a loaded pistol and a knife in her back pocket. “Do you know what gender the child you’re murdering is?” one says, grabbing hold of her arm, she elbows her in the nose.

She lies about her age and name, showing the receptionist in blue mascara and pink lipliner a fake drivers licence. She makes up every detail on her form, Deanna Winchester would never get pregnant at 19 but Nancy Wilson would. They give her a physical examination and she has to bite the sleeve of her shirt when she places her legs in the stirrups. It was her first physical exam and was more painful than any rough bathroom sex she had ever had. They keeping ask her if she was being pressured by anyone else to have the abortion. She just laughs in the nurse’s face and tells them she wants it gone. They give her a million leaflets about mental health and PTSD. She wasn’t expecting an ultrasound; they ask her if she wants to see it and she snaps no. For a second she thinks about running out the door and hoping nature would expel it from her naturally, least she wouldn’t feel so bad about killing the innocent little monster in her belly.

She sits opposite a doctor who talks her through options. She’s only seven weeks, she has lots of options. She chooses the one she can hide from her brother, he’d notice her disappear for a day or two, with a medical abortion she could pop a pill and pretend it was a heavy period. He talks down to her, like she’s a kid who has misbehaved in school, in some ways she had found herself in this situation because she was a kid who misbehaved. The fact they wouldn’t let her leave alone if she had an in-clinic abortion was enough to swing her decision. She pops the pills and takes their leaflets, ignoring all their warnings about cramps and not wanting to be alone. She buys more pads in a drugstore on the way home and some painkillers, although she’s sure she won’t need them.

As she drives back to the motel she doesn’t expect tears to fall but they do. She doesn’t want the baby, she can’t have the baby but it doesn’t stop the guilt that she’s about to kill a living thing. She pulls over and cries in a parking lot, her head buried in the car’s steering wheel. She wipes away her mascara tinted tears and walks the rest of the route to the motel.

Sammy is eating cereal when she gets back, their dad still not back. “I’m gonna take a shower,” she tells him.

“Are you okay?”

“Cramps,” she says. Throwing her satchel down on the bed and taking her pajamas with her into the bathroom. She showers, trying to wash the feeling of guilt away from her. She is having light cramps but nothing near the pain they warned her about. She definitely didn’t need a hot water bottle and a close friend’s hand to hold. She puts her hands between her legs and doesn’t see any blood, it feels tender from the physical but painless. She enjoys the warm water on her sore breasts and overworked muscles until it goes cold and she is forced to get out.

She groans as she steps out the shower, trying not to slip on the tiles. They told her to wait a few days but she couldn’t risk her dad coming back and finding out. He turned his head at her nighttime activities, murmuring good morning as she crawled home still wearing the leather pants from the night before. His only rule was to be safe: don’t get captured, don’t get yourself killed, don’t get pregnant. In that order.

She put the four pills between her gum and lip and nearly vomits straight away. After that nothing happens. She makes Sam some mac and cheese, they watch some Golden Girls reruns together and she turns Sam away when he tries to sit on her bed. She appreciates he’s trying to make her feel better, but she couldn’t bear anyone being close to her. Her body felt warm and heavy yet cold to touch. There’s barely any pain, but she dreads going to the bathroom and seeing what had just been exorcised from her body. She takes some Advil and falls asleep, TV in the background, Sammy watching over her.

She wakes around two hours later with the sensation of being stabbed in the stomach. She jolts up from the bed, Sam having thrown a blanket over her sleeping clothed body. She runs to the bathroom, leaving Sammy shouting after her. She tells him it’s something she’s eaten before throwing up in pain. She’s on her hands and knees when Sam forces the bathroom door open.

“Fuck you’re bleeding!” She feels his hand on her back, long fingers splayed against the flannel “What happened?”

“’m fine,” she gulps. He’s too young to see this. She tries to push him away before she throws up again. She has chills and she can feel the sweat dripping down her neck. He takes her hair and brushes it out of her face with care. She feels his hand on her wrist as he slides the elastic from her wrist. He carefully ties her hair into a messy ponytail, she can feel strands escaping by her ears but she appreciates the sentiment either way. She can feel the gushes between her legs and she unconsciously starts rocking to ease the pain. “Bad period,” she murmurs. “Please go.”

“You’re not okay.”

“Fuck off, Sammy!” she screams. She doesn’t mean to scream, but she’s in too much pain to control her emotions. He scurries away, biting his lip. She slams the door behind him and finally slides her bottoms down. She’s soaked through the pad and through the gray cotton of her pants. She uses the wall to hoist herself from the floor and onto the toilet. She leans against the grimy tiled wall, opening her legs slightly, and breaths through the cramps. She doesn’t realize until Sammy cautiously opens the door that she’s been whimpering in pain, tears running down her face.

“Are you having a miscarriage?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, not making eye contact. She suddenly feels the need to bear down as slippery tissue gushes out of her.

“Do you want to be alone?” He’s too young to see all of this, but she nods, biting her lip. She’s not sure how long she spends sat on that toilet losing her child, clutching the trash can to throw up in, when she feels it. She grabs a wad of paper and holds it between her legs as the slippery thing falls out of her. She wasn’t expecting to see such a fully formed gray blob of anatomy. It feels wrong to flush it down the toilet, but she couldn’t exactly give it a hunter’s funeral.

After that, the cramps and bleeding ease and she’s stopped vomiting. She climbs into bed, exhausted and hungry. She thinks Sam has gone to sleep, but she’s barely closed her eyes when he climbs in beside her. She takes him in her arms and holds him against her chest. She’d have been a terrible mother, anyway.

**III**

The vamp knows before she does. She hits the wall and feels a stabbing pain in her lower stomach. She looks down expecting to see a knife in her gut but there’s nothing. The vamps all turn their heads towards her, ignoring Sam, bloodlust in their eyes. They lick their lips at her familiar pain but are too distracted to notice Sam behind them. They don’t survive her next cramp.

She turns the stereo up loud on the drive away from the nest. Her vision is blurred and she has to blink back tears until it becomes too much. She has to pull over and throw up by the side of the road.

“I’m driving,” Sam firmly tells her, arms crossed. She’s on her hands and knees spluttering up lunch, she knows there’s no way she was winning that argument.

“’m fine,” she mumbles wiping her mouth. She throws up again and now she can feel the familiar slipperiness between her legs. He gets in the driver side, and she doesn’t argue with him. She curls up into herself as he drives them to the motel. It doesn’t hurt as much as her abortion, just like the worst period cramps she has ever experienced.

“Did you know?” he asks. He’s not that 13-year-old kid behind the motel door, there’s no point lying and pretending it was just another injury. “About the baby?”

“No.”

“You’ve got to more careful.” She’s not sure if he means use a condom or stop getting thrown across the room on hunts, either way, she agrees. The sly dog doesn’t drive her to the motel, he drives her to ER. “Seeing you in that motel bathroom, bleeding and crying was of my worst childhood memories, I won’t see you do that again,” he expects her to argue, instead she leans into his side and hopes the whole thing will be over soon. “My sister has had an accident, we think she’s having a miscarriage!” Sam shouts at the front desk, holding her up from falling in pain. 

“I’m sure you and your child will be fine,” the woman with kind eyes tells her. “It’s just a movie myth that a knock can cause a miscarriage.” Deanna sinks into the wheelchair in defeat, Sam’s hand on her shoulder. She tells him to stay outside, but he refuses, not this time he tells her.

The terms hypovolemia, placenta abruption and emergency surgery are the only things that linger in her mind. She’s lost a lot of blood, she can smell it on her clothing and feel it gushing between her legs. They scan her belly, searching for some form of life, but Deanna knows it’s a hollow space. Non-viable, the woman says looking sympathetically at her. “I didn’t know anything was in there,” she spits. The woman pokes around for forever, making excuses about positions and being too small, but there is no way they can ignore the pool of blood between her legs. Sam grips on to her hand like he's the expectant father.

When she wakes up in recovery Sam is still by her side. “Where the fuck am I?” she asks, automatically trying to pull the IV out of her hand.

“You had a D&C. The baby was-” Yeah, what was left of her child was scraped out of her. She rolls over with her back turned to Sam and closes her eyes.

“This isn’t your fault,” he says, placing a hand on her side.

**IV**

She’s been driving for so long she’s not even sure what state she’s in. She recognizes the signs; sore breasts, hot sweats in the night and the constant need to throw up. But the world would soon end and her brother was gone, so what’s the use in bothering?

When she starts to get the chills she has to pull over. It’s the middle of some woods in Minnesota, or was it Missouri? Either way, it’s the type of place where kids get stabbed at the start of a horror film. She curls up in a ball on the backseat of the Impala, clutching a blanket around her shoulders and closes her eyes.

She’s not surprised this has been the outcome of her last few months. A new partner every night with no care about protection, hell she had drunken so much she had blacked out a few times during the act.

She hears the flutter of his wings and feels him sat at her feet. She tucks her knees up to accommodate her angel “Deanna, are you in pain?”

“No more than normal,” she snorts.

“You are pregnant.”

“Neat party trick, Cas.”

“I do not go to parties,” he tartly replies and she chuckles.

“Something tells me this isn’t a social call,” she says, before yawning.

“Deanna, your child is dying.”

“My what?” She says jolting upright so quickly her vision momentarily blurs.

“When we spoke before I noticed a second heartbeat, now I do not. I suspect you will miscarry in the next three to four days.”

“Cas-” she says, she can’t finish her sentence as a guttural sob escapes her mouth.

“It is common. One in four pregnancies ends in miscarriage.”

“Seems like no one believes in me anymore. Everyone wants out, even my baby.”

“I believe in you Deanna Winchester.” He looks at her like she’s the only person in the world that matter and she can’t stop herself as she leans in and gently places a kiss on his lips. He looks at her with confusion before she lies back down, wondering why she was even stitched back together by the angel. What a waste of God’s manpower.

He lies beside her, slipping in the gap between Deanna and the edge of the seat. “Is this okay? This is what I have seen others do when a woman is going through a trauma.” She doesn’t reply, she just buries her head into his chest and sobs until her eyes feel too heavy to open.

He places his hand against her flat stomach, he’s searching from something that is no longer there. He then places a hand on her forehead and it’s gone, like it was never there, like a bad dream that solely she remembered.

She looks up at him with the intention of thanking him, instead, she gets lost in the way he’s looking at her. “You are staring at me. Have I done something wrong?” She shakes her head and buries it into his shoulder, tucking herself into his trench coat. “You mustn’t blame yourself,” he tells her. “Sperm and eggs and embryos are all incredibly complicated. Creation is a process that sometimes the body doesn’t get right.”

“My body never gets it right. Never will. Fuck, I don’t know why I’m crying, I didn’t even want the fucking thing. I’d be a fucking horrible mother, even they know. It’s not my fate.”

“It wasn’t fate, it was an abnormality in the development of the embryo,” he tells her. Part of her is relieved to hear the news, the other part wants to wallow in her guilt. Children had never been in the plan but in the back of her head was the idea that she could meet a nice man or woman, and have kids and that apple pie life. She’d at least like the option to know she could get out of the family business. She feels Cas’ body move and she’s terrified he’s going to leave her as well.

“Please stay,” she says, hating how needy she sounds. He obliges and lies with her until the sun comes up, letting her leave mascara stains on Jimmy’s white shirt.

She considers that the night she realized that the strange angel of hers was The One.

**V**

The bunker allows her to be more open with her feelings for Cas. The feeling of home allows her to show vulnerability without feeling pathetic They regularly make love, Heart playing in the background, and she whispers her I love you’s as she falls apart with his touch. She could spend all day in that bed, naked and entwined with her angel. After so many years of gazes, last night on Earth kisses and lingering touches, she is relieved to be able to kiss him openly in the kitchen and hold his hand whilst watching TV. Sam isn’t surprised when he first catches them together, he probably knew before she did.

When she sees the little positive on the stick her heart bounces with joy. She doesn’t need to tell him, he has sensed it long before her. He kisses her almost flat belly with care, whispering words when he thinks Deanna is asleep. She doesn’t even mind the sore breasts and morning sickness, even if it has meant she can’t eat eggs for breakfast anymore. Cas refuses to let her go on hunts, taking her place alongside Sam instead, and she doesn’t argue with him. Sam questions her absence until he sees the swell of her stomach as she reaches up to grab the maple syrup from the top cupboard. He makes eye contact and grins at her, she smiles back with a hint of sadness. She couldn’t lose this one, she wasn’t going to lose this one. If she says it out loud, the universe may overhear and ruin it for her so the word pregnancy was never uttered.

She enjoys the roundness of her stomach, the heaviness in her breasts, the softness in her face. She had spent most of her life being embarrassed by her femininity. She soon realized she was never going to be one floral dresses and manicures, but she enjoyed the power a tight pair of jeans and a push-up bra gave her. She cut her hair aged 13, her father slapped her and told her that he didn’t bring up a dyke. After she fingers Lily Anderson in her high school bathroom she agrees with him, he had brought a daughter who didn’t give a shit what she was fucking as long as it felt good. Her father encouraged her to wear tight dresses and heels in the evenings, it was easier to get information this way, she also learned it was easier to hustle when wearing a tight little red dress.

The way Cas looks at her naked body, like she was a miracle, like their child was a miracle, made her feel better than she had ever felt in her life. She misses the coffee and she really misses the beer, but it’s worth it for the way Cas places kisses on her lower stomach. She could do without the hormones, the fact she cries every time Sam and Cas come back from a hunt, the fact she cries watching commercials on TV and that one time she cried because Cas brought her pie. Sometimes she lets her mind drift away to baby names and what color to paint the nursery, but she has to bite her lip and put the thoughts to the back of her head.

When she wakes up without him at her side, she knows something is wrong. She can sense it in her gut. He’s sat in the study drinking whiskey straight. “Cas,” she croaks. “It’s 5 am.”

“Dee…” She gulps, he can’t even look at her, can’t make eye contact. “Have you felt our son move?”

“Our son?” she gulps. The fucker knew and didn’t tell her the gender of their child.

“Yes, our son, his heart is weak.” She has to cling onto the back of the chair to stop herself falling to the ground.

“Can’t you do something?” She feels numb, like each organ is slowly shutting down individually.

He shakes his head and takes a drink. “My powers are too weak and he is too small to-” She doesn’t hear the end of the sentence before she slides to the floor. She sobs until she can’t breathe, but he doesn’t come to her side. He stays sat with his drink, staring into the distance. It’s Sam that finds her and scoops her off the floor. “My baby is dying!” she cries into his hair, balling up his shirt in her fists. He carries her to her room and lays her down on the bed. She rolls onto her side and clutches her belly, praying that her strong miracle baby would make it through the day.

She doesn’t see Cas for three days, he can’t bear to be in the room and listen to the failing heartbeat of their dying son. When he does come back he reeks of booze and his eyes are red from crying. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” she coldly asks. She’s cried all that she can, now the resignation has set it. There was no way she would ever bear a child. Cas places his hand to her temple but she bats it away, she wasn’t going to let their child disappear so quickly. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Four days later her waters break and she doesn’t expect it to feel like labor. She squats on the bathroom floor, the door locked to let Cas know he wasn’t welcome. The pain comes in waves and she feels her body pushing out her dead child. It’s the most emotionally and physically painful thing she has ever done. She doesn’t expect to see an intact foetus in her hand, but when she wipes the blood away, she can make out all the details. The legs and arms, the tiny head shape. She looks up at Cas, feeling his presence in the doorway, having forced himself in. He looks down at the bloody mess in the palm of her hand and walks out.

She buries their son in the same place as her mother, they call him Robert, and she knows she would have failed him sooner rather than later. “It’s okay to cry,” Sam tells her, hand on her back.

“Fuck you.” She doesn’t make eye contact with Cas as she gets back into the car.

For a while, she thinks her relationship with Cas won’t survive the loss. She spends the following weeks away from the bunker, hunting and driving. It almost feels like the old days where nothing mattered except saving lives and killing monsters.

She sees the way Cas looks at her when she finally returns home, ribs broken and eye blackened. He hugs her tight until she can’t ignore her injuries and realizes no one would ever make her feel like that again. No man would ever look at her in the way, no pity or disgust, just awe and love. It was pure and real, and too good to not fight for.

“I love you,” she tells the small of his back at 3 am. He doesn’t sleep, but he goes through the motions of getting into bed with her and curling up with the lights out.

“You have never said it before. Not like this,” he says.

“I’ve always meant it.”

**I**

She should hate being eight months pregnant, but she can’t when Cas looks at her like she’s a goddess. She poses for him every morning and cups her large, firm belly. He drinks her in, remembering every curve, every stretch mark, every dip. The sex has never been better, despite his caution with her, especially when she has convinced him to bend her over every surface in the bunker. Her sex drive has never been higher, and that is saying something.

She hates having to wait at home during hunts, and she really fucking hates not being able to eat or drink anything she loves. But she loves the foot rubs and the back kisses and how Cas will do anything she asks. She buys an at-home doppler machine and checks their daughter every morning. She could ask Cas but she doesn’t want to see that look in his eyes again, the immense pain and sadness of knowing she was carrying a dead child. She sits on the side of the bathtub and listens to her baby’s heartbeat obsessively.

She briefs Sam to get Cas out if anything goes wrong, he wouldn’t be able to think rationally should she or their child run into trouble. Bury them in the family plot, use the right oil on the impala and make sure Cas doesn’t drink too much. She knows all the statistics are against her. She’s forty, she’s already lost three babies, she’s carrying something that may not entirely be human, she’s pretty sure she spent the first two months drinking and fighting. The odds were stacked up against them.

She thinks she can handle anything, she’s rejected death enough times that something as common as birthing a baby shouldn’t be too difficult. Boy, is she wrong. Even with Cas’ pain relief, it’s the worst pain she could imagine. Every plan she had is thrown out the window, she just wanted the baby out as quickly and as safely as possible. She was going to deliver her own baby in bed, Cas by her side holding her hand. Instead, she finds herself in the bathtub, a leg hooked over each side of the tub, crying in pain. Her body feels like it’s being torn apart and every time she feels the need to push her back seizes up.

“Cas, I, I love you. If I, we,” she clings onto his arm and grunts through the contractions “If we don’t, if she doesn’t-” There is no way she is going to survive this pain, it’s unnatural to feel like your body is being torn apart in so many different ways.

“Dee, Deanna,” Cas says, hand in the water, at her opening, preparing to guide their child into the world. “You and our daughter will be fine.”

Sam is supposed to be outside, but instead, he’s at her side. One hand holding hers, ignoring her tight grip, the other on her knees keeping them parted. She doesn’t remember when he came in, she lost all dignity after her water broke over the kitchen floor. He promises not to look, “Eyes up top,” she yells at him. She’s glad he’s there, laughing at her whimpers and telling her that she’s handled worse. “Sammy, I can’t do this.” She can feel her opening burning as her baby crowns, her body is trying to fight her instincts, pushing and bearing down when Deanna thinks she can no longer go on.

“Dee,” Sam says, staring straight into her eyes, “I know this sucks right now but you will forget about this once she’s here.”

“Sammy,” she pants “Do me a favor, never knock up a woman. Don’t put anyone through this.”

“Noted,” he snorts. A contractions hit and Sam has to hold her knee to stop her legs from slamming shut, the foreign body pushing against her entrance.

“She hates me right now,” Cas says. She’ll apologize later for swearing at him, for once she has a good excuse for being mean. Sam pats Cas on the back and snorts.

She pushes out a perfect little girl to cries of “I can’t do it!” She’s a little blue but a quick rub with a towel she cries and she’s alive, and she's loud, and it’s the best thing Deanna has ever heard in her life. She is too busy staring at her daughter, led naked on her full breasts, to notice the afterbirth and Cas’s celestially cleaning up of the mess. Sammy cries and then Deanna cries and then Cas cries and they must look like idiots.

She made something good, something pure, something beautiful. She can’t believe such a delicate little baby came from her rough, beaten body.

She staggers to bed and lays staring at her beautiful daughter, she doesn’t care that she’s dripping water across their bedroom. She cries tears of relief, counting little fingers and toes and taking in the scent of her daughter, Charlene Winchester.

“Cas,” she whispers, looking up at him. “We did it.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always welcome.


End file.
